I always thought there was some kind of onamatapoeia to heartbreak. Crushing an eggshell in your hand, breaking into hollow chocolate, dropping a thin china plate onto the floor and hearing the clash as it falls apart in the spilt second in which it hits the ground.
When my heart broke, none of these sounds applied. It started off with my texttone, two sharp dings. The pressing of some buttons. A raspy intake of breath in realisation. A knock on the floor as my knees buckled. "Crap," I whispered.